Iteration 113 - J Squad
by Darkpenn
Summary: Sometimes, the future is just a matter of Fate.


**Iteration #113 – J Squad**

 _Sometimes, the future is just a matter of fate._

"Hey, mate, I think there's something wrong with your suit," said some Brit guy on the other side of the dropship.

"Yeah, there's a dead man in it," said Cage. After 113 times, he didn't find it funny. Although he hadn't found it funny the first time. But it shut everyone up.

He checked his equipment. At least there was never any trouble getting more clips for the 556 and the additional grenades. And now he had the extra pop-up guns – known as angel wings – on his back. It had taken him a dozen tries to learn how to use them properly but now he thought he had the hang of them. And he had learned to keep an extra grenade in an inside pocket.

Sergeant Farell was walking through the ranks of soldiers, as the drop-doors in the floor swung open. " ... thirty seconds to deploy, ready to activate drop lines ... " he was saying.

It started a moment after that, like it always did. An explosion in the front of the ship, sweeping H squad away in a blast of flames.

The soldiers were supposed to release in sequence but Cage had learned that his best option was to go immediately. He hit the release and was on the beach in a few seconds. He looked around for Kimble. Yes, there he was, shouting that he had made it and totally oblivious to the flaming dropship about to fall on him. Cage grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him away – again – as the ship ploughed into the sand. He closed his eyes to avoid the shower of dirt. But he was glad he had abandoned the helmet a dozen iterations ago. Damn thing was more hindrance than help.

"That way," said Cage to the big guy. "J squad is that way."

"How ... where ... how do you know?" said Kimble, trying to peer through the confusion of soldiers, smoke, wrecks and bodies.

Cage said nothing. Here, now, explanations were somewhat beside the point.

He knew that Sergeant Farell, Nance, Ford, Skinner, Griff, and Kuntz were in a crater fifty metres away. Right about now, Sergeant Farell would be telling Nance to provide a sitrep.

Except it wasn't a crater. It was a mimic hole. Cage began to run, flicking the safety off his gun, Kimble panting along behind.

The mimic was coming up behind the squad, spinning its way out of the sand. "Down!" he shouted, running around the lip of the crater and firing burst after burst. The mimic screamed and convulsed, severed tentacles flying off. Cage leaped in, smashing the armoured fist of his left hand into the centre of it.

"Holy ... shit," said Nance.

"Well, Private Cage, it looks as if you might be more than deadweight after all," said Sergeant Farell. "But where's your helmet, soldier?"

"We have to get out of here," said Cage. "There are mimics about to come up on that side and that side, and in about ten seconds you'll see a whole wave of them coming over that rise at us. If we stay here we all die. Will die."

A mimic suddenly appeared at the edge of the crater, just as Cage had predicted. He was already firing at it, enough to stop it in its tracks. The others joined in, Kimble finishing it off with his big gun.

"That side!" shouted Cage, and everyone turned in that direction. Another one, and their combined fire put it down.

"Uh, Sergeant, we have incoming, 500 metres!" shouted Nance, peering through the field-glasses.

Sergeant Farell looked over the edge. "Here they come," he said. "Mean as hell – "

"And thick as grass," finished Cage.

"Uh, yeah," said Sergeant Farell.

"Damn lot of them," said Griff. "Damn lot."

Cage tried to remember what had happened last time. He had told Farell that they had to move from this hole. Farell had refused, with a look that said his command would not be questioned. And they were all dead a minute later.

"Sergeant Farell," said Cage. "When I was coming in I saw a ridge over there. It ... it might be a better firing position."

"Are you suggesting a retreat, Private?"

"Definitely not, Sergeant. I'm just saying that from that elevated position we ... we might be better placed to take them as they come up."

Sergeant Farell looked at the incoming horde of mimics and then at the ridge Cage had indicated.

"Well, you might just have a decent idea there, Private Cage," said Sergeant Farell.

He gestured to the squad to fall back to the ridge.

"Wait!" said Cage. "There's one coming – "

A mimic suddenly came leaping at them. Cage deployed the angel wings and put two rockets into it, mid-air. He finished it off with his grenade launcher as it fell.

"Whoa," said Ford.

"Outstanding," said Sergeant Farell.

"I thought you said you hadn't been in a jacket before," said Griff.

"I've done it ... a bit," said Cage.

They reached the ridge. _Damn, it's working,_ Cage thought. _I've been able to save them. So far._

The avalanche of mimics was coming on.

 _This,_ thought Cage, _is where the last one ended. One came at me –_

"There!" he shouted, turning to fire at a mimic that had come swirling up from behind. He dodged aside as the tentacle that had killed him last time lashed out. He put two grenades down its throat – if that was its throat – and it exploded into fragments.

"Mow 'em," said Sergeant Farell.

The squad fired and fired at the charging aliens, guns and grenades and rockets and Kimble's cannon. For a moment, the mimics wavered ... and then the cascade changed direction, heading towards the remaining soldiers on the beach. They chopped their way through them, past the wrecked landing craft and downed choppers, and into the water.

"Woo-hoo!" shouted Griff. "We saw them off!"

"But now they're heading for England," said Cage. "There's nothing to stop them."

"Stay focused on our situation, ladies," said Sergeant Farell. "We have enough business right here."

And, indeed, there were mimics, singly or in small groups, coming at them, from all directions. Dozens. Hundreds. More.

"This is not good," muttered Kuntz.

"Just means more targets," said Sergeant Farell, as they all began to fire.

"I think there are more of them than we have bullets," said Nance.

The squad, back-to-back now, was putting down a storm of fire. Shooting and re-loading and firing and covering each other as they re-loaded again. Until –

"I'm out!" said Ford.

"Me too!" said Griff.

Skinner started to say something – but a tentacle speared him through the chest before he could get it out. It lifted him up and away.

Nance threw her empty gun down. She pulled out a Bowie-style knife. "Come on, bitches," she murmured. "Got some Louisiana steel for you." She gave a yell and plunged into the mimic throng.

Cage, with his extra ammunition, was still firing. But he saw Ford and Griff go down. And then Kimble, swarmed as he swung his big gun like a club.

Sergeant Farell looked at the wave of mimics. "The fiery crucible," he said, softly. And then a tentacle speared him.

 _Goddamn goddamn goddamn_ , thought Cage. _I really thought I had it that time._

And then he realised he could not save them. And even if he did, what would be the point? It was a dead-end. He needed a different sort of help. A different strategy. Something scratched at his mind. What was it he saw every time he woke up?

His guns clicked on empty. Mimics were coming at him from every side. He reached into his pocket, felt for the last grenade. It was less painful, he knew, than death by tentacles.

As he pulled the pin, he thought: _Next time, as soon as I hit this fucking beach, I've got to find the Full Metal Bitch._

Then: "Wake up, maggot!"

END


End file.
